When he strokes me there, I jump and close my eyes. My clit jumps too, right up against his suddenly pressing fingers, and I give him some more juice to make his caress easy. He seems to revel in all the easiness, sliding back and forth through my slit with two eager fingers, and all the time watching, watching, watching.
His eyes burn all over me and then he pushes those fingers down, inside, right into my pussy, while I arch my back up off the bed and grasp for more. Deeper, I think, deeper with those thick, rough fingers.
But I only think it because I know he’s going to tease me some more.
With his free hand he pushes down those clingy little pants, not rushing to get straight between my thighs in order to hide his nakedness. His cock stands close to his belly, gleaming at the tip and as curved and thick and long as I remember—but he’s stiffer, redder. He passes his hand over himself only briefly, as though close enough to flashpoint to know he has to take care. His cock bobs all on its own, and a shining thread of precome glistens all the way down the shaft.
I lick my lips again. I’m gripping handfuls of the sheets, and not just because his busy fingers are stirring insistently against that bundle of nerves inside me. He rubs and rubs as though trying to uncover the shape of something.
My body bows under the pressure. I arch my back again and rock my hips up to meet him, one greedy hand lashing out to stop his from moving away when he goes to. He almost smiles, but more than that is the twist and turn of his wet fingers as they leave my pussy and slide over my wrist, freeing him but capturing me.
Now he has hold of my hand, and he wastes no time tugging me to his cock. I grip him eagerly, palm skidding and sliding through all the moisture he’s produced just for me. He swells when I squeeze him and I watch his head go back—just a little. Not enough to give himself away.
Though I don’t know what away he might be giving.
He gives more when I twist on the bed and scramble forward to swallow his heavy flesh down.
His salt-sweet taste is bright against my tongue, but better than that is the feel of him, yielding to the pressure of my mouth until I get to that iron-stiff core. I try out sucks and licks to the beat of his sighing moans, and I’m pushed to work harder when he asks me if I like giving head.
I don’t answer him because when I say nothing, he keeps talking. He keeps asking in that wondering tone of voice, as though he can’t believe how greedy my mouth is. But of course, it isn’t really my mouth that’s greedy.
It’s my body, and it wants to eat his juddering words. “Oh, god, you feel good,” he tells me. “Harder,” he tells me. “Hurt me,” he tells me.
Instead of obeying I lick the flat of my tongue right over that sweet ridge on the underside, the one that makes him urge himself into my mouth. “I’m going to come, baby,” he tells me, and I like that, too.
But I stop short of him going over. I don’t want him in my mouth. I want to lie back on the bed and order him, “Mark me.”
He knows exactly what I mean. It doesn’t take a dozen halting explanations. And he tugs my nightgown down, too, so that my too-tight nipples meet the air. I shiver just to feel that slight caress, but stretch to gather up more of it. I’m vibrating with the need to feel more of it. When he jerks his cock roughly over the bend of my body, thighs caging me in, I shudder all over.
The slit at the tip of his prick opens and closes with each stroke, slipperiness spilling over his fist until I’m sure he’s there already. I’m sure until he really does come, the muscles in his thighs tightening and flexing around my body where he’s straddling me, his expression so tight and suddenly closed that I imagine it’s painful.
It’s painful for me waiting, while his spunk stripes my tits and adds another layer of caress. First hot, then cool, then colder yet, icing on the swollen sensitive tips of my breasts.
I shout out loud when he finally comes down from it and runs a curious finger through his cream to spread it around my nipple.
Sparks of sensation radiate through me, but he doesn’t let them rest for long. He searches out my aching clit, bending in so strange and sensuous a way. He almost has to reach between his own legs to get to me, and so both the visual and his pressing stroking fingers are the things that send me up.
I struggle against the sudden burst of my orgasm at first, but that only makes it climb higher. It clenches me up tight, my clit swelling into the rough press of his fingers, before letting me go.
I squirm into the mattress, dancing for him in gratitude and bliss, sure that I wouldn’t trade anything for this.
I wake in the middle of the night to find him staring at me through the darkness. My skin bristles—I feel it all over me—but I don’t move away. I could go to the bathroom or pretend I didn’t see him looking—but I don’t.
Instead I move forward softly and kiss his mouth in the same way. I kiss it again and then again, but he doesn’t take charge like he did earlier. He just lies there, impassively taking what I’m giving out.
I tell him to spread his legs, just as he made me. He has to obey, after all. And he does, pushing the covers down so that I can see his long solid legs spread like a girl’s. Roland was always strict about him being a man, and me being a lady; he was always very rigid about it—but this new Roland doesn’t seem to care.
He lets me litter his body with bite marks, too. In fact he moans for them and arches into my hot biting mouth, hissing when I catch his spiky nipples and squirming on the bed as I did for him.
He growls when I straddle him and sink down onto his jutting cock. I cage him in, right back. His body feels as big as a mighty pine between my thighs, and even bigger sliding into me. I ache and stretch to accommodate him, sighing when that fat length fills me up.
He sighs too and I actually find my own words: “Talk to me,” I tell him, as I work myself on his cock.
“Yes,” he replies. “Anytime you want—anything you want.”
I squeeze myself tight around him—though I don’t have to go far. I’m swollen already from one shivering too-intense orgasm, and he swells inside me at every stroke. When I flutter my pussy around him, he jerks his hips up at me.
I cry out—louder than I ever have done before. I think of the neighbors briefly amidst a miasma of sensation, almost lolling over him and letting him take my hips to dictate the pace, but then I realize with a start that it doesn’t matter.
They will only see Roland. They will only hear Roland. They will hear me making love to my husband, again and again and again until I’m raw.
“Is this what you were like before?” he asks between panting breaths, and then quickly afterward—too quickly afterward: “I don’t remember you being like this.”
But he’s too far into this to make any sense anyway and the look on his face forces me not to care. He’s frowning and clenching the muscles in his jaw already, sunk deep in my slippery heat and pleased to be there, I think. More than pleased to be there.
He lets out a guttural groan and then a gasp, clutching my hips hard and tugging me onto his jerking cock, but I get there first. I get there first because he pushes my own hand between my thighs and forces me to press the heel of my palm against my clit, and when I do I shake with the strength of it.
I shake until he pulls me down on top of him and kisses words into my hair. “You’re not like I remember, Margie.”
I think about him saying that the next day, and the day after that, and ever afterward. I think about it when we’re in the bathtub together and I soap that strange mark on his shoulder, or when we’re watching something together or eating together or as he takes my hand, just as the neighbors stop by for our barbecue dinner.
You’re not like I remember, Margie.
I wonder if he has thought about crazy things like body snatchers or pod people or clones, too, though really I haven’t thought about any of those things at all. I was scared at first I’ll admit, because why would anyone ever do a thing like this? A normal person, I mean. Why would a
normal person pretend he was someone else so that he could have lawn chairs and lovemaking every evening and sometimes in between, and an average job and an average life and all of these things that now seem to make me so happy?
And then I think about his brother. His brother, who I know had a tattoo on his left shoulder, a tattoo that would probably leave something behind—like a dark mark—if he were to ever have it removed.
Especially if he had it removed somewhere like prison, which is where Roland always said he was.
Of course Roland never spoke much about him at all. Families like his don’t talk about bad eggs, who do things like steal and murder and inveigle their way into your secret heart, the secret heart that wants dark instead of light, danger instead of boredom.
But I can’t blame Roland for always being the latter any more than I can blame him for never wanting to talk about his brother. It’s hard to talk about someone so rotten and wrong, when that wrong and rotten person is your twin.
THE STONE ROOM
A. D. R. Forte
I
James went seeking his fortune. He found it three quarters of the way up a great tower that stretched into the sky. The fortune was fairly abundant as fortunes go and so, as young men are wont to do, he sought adventure next.
He’d been gifted with a well-made sword, one of notable length and girth, and perhaps it was this that made him a little careless. He could venture any challenge, conquer it and leave it later, not worrying that any gentle tendrils might attach themselves to his heart. Every morning, wherever he happened to wake, he cut himself free with ease and went back to making more fortune.
To many a less fortunate adventurer among the great towers, he seemed kissed by Lady Fortune herself. He accepted this without question when others said it. But alone in the castle he’d fashioned of glass and polished wood and expensive knickknacks within the heart of another tower, he looked out on the realms below and found himself ill at ease.
Sleepless.
Restless.
He searched out ever more conquests, subduing them with ease, but after each he lay awake through the hours of the night, staring into darkness, searching, fretting and thinking that for all he’d won, he’d gained nothing at all.
He had seen the wise woman before. In fact, he saw her every day at the great tower. She looked more girl than woman, perhaps no older than he himself. Thin, mousy, hiding behind thick-rimmed spectacles and plain shirts that hid any shape she might or might not have had. But like him, she could deftly spin gold from nothing but words.
He admired her skill, but beyond that, he had no cause to think of her at all. She had no place in his world beyond the tower walls.
Until he went in search of ever darker adventure.
An acquaintance who knew him better than most, who perhaps guessed at the hidden disquiet in his friend’s eyes, told him of the place, invited him to come along one night. Just to see.
He went, expecting nothing. It was but another place for the populace to gather and indulge their vices, albeit vices with a strange twist. Like a shallow tourist, he’d be a sore thumb, clearly out of place. But as he sat in a discreet corner with his friend, wineglass in hand, to watch, he felt a cold finger run down his spine.
He chided himself, ashamed that he sought cheap thrills from gawking at the taboo. He had meant to stay collected and detached. He had meant to smile and seem world weary and patronizing.
He left that night with sweat soaking the fine linen of his shirt beneath his dark jacket, and a hunger like fire in his belly and his loins.
When he slept, he dreamed of pain.
A second time he returned, and then a third time, alone. When his friend could not join him, he secured access for himself. Silent, sober, he watched and dreamed. And so it was the wise woman found him.
Startled at the familiar voice, at the touch on his arm, he turned. For a moment, he didn’t recognize the narrow, pointed face between waves of dark hair, or the slender figure in satin and leather. But the smoky eyes behind the spectacles were the same he saw every day in the great tower. He marveled at her presence in this place.
She smiled, something she seldom did at the tower.
“Drew told me he had a friend who would be here tonight. He asked me to take care of you,” she explained, voice quiet as ever, but rich with amusement. “I never imagined it would be you of all people.”
At that he blushed. Had stories of his conquests reached her? Did she think him here for the same purpose? He wanted to protest his innocence of the crime before she could accuse him, but tongue-tied he could find nothing to say. In the great tower, such things weren’t spoken of, weren’t even acknowledged to exist, except perhaps in whispers amongst the squares of plastic and fiberglass that dotted the floors. There was nothing he could say.
Silent, he sat with her to watch. And in time the music of blows, of cries, of breath swept him away. He forgot about the tower, forgot the wise woman at his side. Forgot all but the heat in his face and in his loins.
She took his hand and pulled him away from the crowded rooms.
“Come with me. Forget all this,” she said. “It’s not what you’re looking for.”
“It’s not?” he asked, laughing, recovering a smidgen of his usual poise before she turned and looked at him with huge eyes behind glass that seemed to see right through his rib cage and into his heart.
She shook her head. “No. I don’t think so.”
A door waited at the bottom of a flight of stairs. They stood halfway down, his hand in hers, and the shadows of the stairwell seemed to wrap themselves around her, tangling in her unruly hair and the trailing sleeves of her blouse. He had consumed not a drop of alcohol, but his head still spun, weightless as a balloon.
I can give you what you want. Your body’s desire. Your heart’s desire.
Did she say it? Or did he conjure the words out of wishful thinking and put them into her unassuming, serene voice.
“Okay,” he said.
She opened the door for him.
A giant waited on the other side, as if he’d been expecting them. Behind his broad shoulders, stark walls of stone lit by pale blue-white light waited. The smell of antiseptic and leather mingled in the cool air.
“This is James,” she told the giant.
He started at the sound of his name in this place, though he could not imagine why. He feared nothing. He had seen everything there was to see, could conquer anything, and nothing ever held him long before he wriggled free and went on, searching. Why then should this be any different?
The giant nodded acknowledgment and spoke but one word. “Welcome.”
Bands of thick leather crossed the man’s arms beneath the rolled up sleeves of his shirt. His eyes were shards of blue ice, his head shaved smooth, and James had to tilt his own gaze up ever so slightly to meet the giant’s. But James’s own arms were as muscled, his shoulders as broad, and he didn’t fear.
He could pass their test.
As for his heart’s desire, he wouldn’t think of that. Not now. And how could he, when he had no inkling of what it might even be?
They stripped him of his clothing and shackled his hands above his head, locked his bare feet to either end of an iron bar that kept his legs spread wide. He said not a word, made not a sound.
Bear it without complaint or resistance, she had told him. If he protested, they would stop. They would send him back to the world above, and he would be safe, unhurt, unblemished…and he would have failed.
He refused to fail.
At the first vicious kiss of the leather, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath as the giant had warned him he must do, but the breath still froze in his throat. Stinging lines snaked down his back and his ass. Even knowing it was unwise, he could not help his muscles from tensing against the threat of pain, and the next sting wrung a stifled cry from his lips.
Between his legs need stirred, kindled by the insistent brutal force that had filled his drea
ms with images of welted skin and straining limbs for days, for weeks without number now. The lashes came faster, then slower, driven by the force of the giant’s powerful arm, and their bite turned fiery.
Despite the chill of the stone, perspiration trickled down his skin and he feared he would lose his balance, his legs trembled so. But he squeezed his hands into fists and gritted his teeth, held on while the blood pounded in his temples. And with each new blow the hunger crested and ebbed, tormented him beyond endurance. It urged him to scream, to beg for release, to demand anything but this silent helplessness.
First a pause. Then another tongue of fire down his inflamed skin. Then another rasping breath in his raw throat, dry as bone. An endless cycle.
Head spinning, he imagined his body dissolving: lava and brimstone. Somewhere, beyond consciousness, blinking sweat and tears from his eyes, he stared up at the stone ceiling, at white-blue light, and knew the whip had stopped.
Ah, but it was too late, part of his mind whispered. Too late. He knew he could not fight what would be inevitable now.
The giant’s hot mouth closed around his taut flesh and a low, guttural moan broke from him, in a voice he barely recognized as his own. He felt the rough brush of moustache and beard on his skin, and sweet tingles danced like imps through his blood. He moaned.
This was a trial to be endured and survived. He should not enjoy it, should not want it…but then never had he imagined such a thing. Never would he have approved of it even if he had. He twisted his head from side to side, as if he might shake the thoughts out of it.
But he would not cry out now. He would not fail. He could not.
He desired that mouth, and the broad, rough hands that caressed his welted back and his balls; the throat that swallowed the length of his blade with knowing expertise; the strong hands that held him still as he bucked and writhed and surrendered at last with a meaningless scream.
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